


Burnout

by pomegrenadier



Series: Structural Integrity [23]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Gen, Permanent Injury, The Dark Side of the Force, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 13:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12366330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: Baras tries to tie up a loose end. Evren tries to stay alive.





	Burnout

**o.O.o**

Dark. Pain. Breathing dust and poison. It settles in his lungs and burns and burns. The filtration mask is broken, metal cutting into his face.

Pressure. Cold stone crushing armor, crushing bone. Can't move. He can't _move_ and he's breathing his own death and it's dark and it hurts—

 _Pain is power._ The earliest lesson. Pain is power. Use it. Master it or be devoured by it.

Use it so it doesn't kill you.

The Force is there. Always. In him and around him and part of him. And it _burns_ when he reaches for it, it's fire and it's terror and it's _his_ , he can—

He can think again. In the dark, in the fire, he's—there's a mountain of broken rock pinning him down and a cloud of Quesh venom spreading from the broken pipeline, oozing closer. He reaches out. Wraps his awareness around the broken slabs trapping him. He could—no. There's too much. Unsteady, unstable. Shifting it will bring it all down.

Evren laughs, hoarse and ragged and tasting of blood and dust and venom. He coughs. It hurts, deep in his chest. He's dying. He's going to die.

No.

Assess: broken right arm, bruised or cracked ribs (possibly broken), crushed left leg. That's the real problem—if he could move, if he could get out from under the rubble, maybe . . . but he can't. He's going to die here hacking up his own blood and he'll never know if Vette—

His lightsaber scrapes and clatters over the ground when he calls it to hand. He whimpers as the familiar weight hits his palm. He activates it. Red light. Brilliant, beautiful red light. It burns out the dim poison green. It hums steady and real and good and he holds onto it and holds and _holds_. The whimpering turns into another laugh that turns into a sob.

The venom cloud is so close that the nearest tendrils stir with his labored breaths.

Evren twists, squeals in pain like a trapped animal but he is, he _is_ , it's all he's ever been, he's going to die here—no. No. He chokes on the noise as another coughing fit tears at his abused ribcage. No. No. He draws his right leg up and angles the lightsaber, parallel to the ground, hovering over his left thigh. The Force burns and burns and burns and he holds onto it and it holds him up and takes the pain and turns it into _no, not like this, not today, NOT YET_.

He cuts. It hurts less than the coughing and the killing weight. He reaches forward with his good hand, lightsaber still held tight, and _pulls_ at the other end of the cavern and he slides forward through the edge of the venom cloud and then—

He rolls over onto his belly and cries in relief, coughing, always coughing. He's coughing blood but the stump of his leg is burned shut and can't bleed and he wants to scream but he can't get enough air.

He can move. He can barely crawl with half his limbs broken or left under the rubble like dead roots still clinging to the soil after a weed's been pulled oh gods oh gods he's—no. No. No. Nononono. No.

_Use it._

Pain. Power. He can move. The Force is in him and around him and part of him. He can move himself. It burns and the red light burns and the poison in him burns but he can move. He crawls. Meter by meter. The cave is still filling with venom. It's getting harder to breathe. Harder to think. The Force burns. He keeps crawling. He does not let go of his lightsaber. It's all he has. Red. Focus on the red.

Keep moving.

 **o.O** **.o**

They find him near the cavern entrance, clawing his way towards the surface.

_Offer no help._

He is laughing, breathless. He barely notices them. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. The Force is blackened and bloody with pain.

_Survival will prove his worth._

They will watch, and wait, and see.

**o.O.o**

"Evren! Ev, I got you, I'm here—fuck, no, no no no—c'mon, Ev, stay with me—QUINN! QUINN, I FOUND HIM, OVER HERE!"

**o.O.o**

"Oh," Evren says, reaching up with his good hand.

His reflection has always belonged to her but now . . .

Evren drops the mirror and holds his throat through the thin segmented collar of the respirator and lies back and stares at the ceiling with eyes that aren't _his_ anymore and he laughs like something made of torn metal and broken glass. It hurts to laugh. The respirator wheezes.

Evren _howls_.

He's Sith. He has always been Sith and he will never be anything but Sith. Why not look the role? Why not be exactly what he is, inside and out, why hide, why pretend otherwise, why fucking bother when it's only the sad ugly truth?

 _You win_.

He feels sick and he laughs and laughs and laughs and at the back of his mind Perrathor is screaming as Evren rips him apart and _this is what you are_ — **  
**

**o.O.o**

 "It's not the fucking leg!" Evren shouts. Then he _stops_ , frozen, horrified. He reaches up, covers his face. The respirator's cycling goes ragged. "Sorry," he whispers. "Jaesa, I'm so sorry . . ."

"Then what is it?" she says.

He drops his hands, fingers twisting and tangling in the white sheets. They took his gauntlets. He can't look at Jaesa. He stares fixedly at the long stretch of blanket that should be covering a limb and isn't. "Cowardice."

"That's not an answer, Master."

It's the truth. "I'm sorry."

"I don't need an apology," Jaesa says, frustrated. "I need to understand."

"I don't know how to—" He breaks off, and then his hands curl into the blankets and he spits out, "I'm Sith. I'm fucking _Sith_ and I can't even lie to myself anymore and I still can't fucking believe you thought I was anything but a lying piece of _shit_ —"

**o.O.o**

Evren forgets, for a moment. He looks her in the eye and then he _remembers_. Flinches. "Sorry," he says hoarsely.

"What? Hey, no, everything's all right," Vette says.

He keeps his gaze lowered, his mind shielded. Useless gestures. She doesn't need the Force to see right through him.

". . . Self-conscious?" she says gently.

"Leave it."

"Because you don't scare me, you know," Vette continues, relentless. "Not anymore. Doesn't matter how much Sithy crap you're throwing around, doesn't matter if you're all glowy or whatever, I am _way_ past being afraid of you."

"It's not . . ." Evren exhales. "Thank you," he says after a moment. "That you would trust me so much—it means everything to me."

"But . . .?

Breathe. In and out. The respirator hisses. "I look like _her_."

"Oh." Vette goes quiet for a moment. She moves, then, and sits down beside him, warm silver shadows in the Force. "Well, you're _not_ her. You're you, and anyone who can't see that isn't looking hard enough. And, y'know, the orange is actually really pretty."

Evren's throat goes tight. He swallows. And because it's _Vette_ he leans towards her, just enough that their shoulders touch.

Vette scoots closer and reaches up and around to put her hand on his far shoulder. He squeezes his stupid, _stupid_ eyes shut and presses his lips together and shakes and shakes.

"I got you," she says.

"I know," he croaks.

He loves her so much that it hurts and he will never deserve this but he is selfish enough to take it, to sit there with her arm around him drinking in her closeness and her kindness like water, like life.

**o.O.o**


End file.
